Our Hearts were Touched by Fire
by True Warden of the East
Summary: Even in the midst of war and betrayal, America can't find it in himself to hate the Confederacy, his other half.  Without thinking, he instead forms a friendship that will shape him for years to come.
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's Note_**

This story is planned as a three-parter, and obviously, contains an OC (the Confederacy). Thanks for reading, and please review (as always, constructive criticism is welcome).

* * *

><p><em>(April 1863)<em>

America wondered just how far he had strayed from the army's camp. He had set out in the morning and the sun was already past its noontime zenith. He should probably get back soon, he thought. After all, his generals would probably scold him if he came back too late. And what if there was a battle or something while he was gone? He couldn't stand the idea that he might miss any of the action.

But sitting on the flat rock by the bank of the stream was so lovely. The water was cool against his feet, which were sore and weary from marching. The sound of the stream was so soothing, and the air was just warm enough without being too hot. He could have stayed there for hours, even days. Once, a long time ago, he would have done just that. He would have run through the fields, climbed trees, and sat by any brook or stream he wanted, for as long as his heart desired. But he had been a baby then. He'd had neither government to please nor wars to fight. His own people hadn't been trying to kill him…

During the battle at Fort Sumter, it had felt like someone was ripping his guts out with hot knives. That night still gave him bad dreams, even two years later. But the worst part was, he didn't understood why it had happened. He still didn't understand why. Why would his own people try to hurt him? He knew the South wasn't happy, but surely they could have worked through it? Tearing themselves apart just didn't make sense. They needed to stay strong, what with Europe still keeping a greedy eye on him even now. It had been almost a hundred years since he had won his independence from Britain, so why couldn't everyone else just leave him alone?

Sometimes, he wasn't sure whom he felt more betrayed by: his South, or his former mentors. Both Britain and France were supporting the revolutionaries, to try to weaken him. That fact had stung more than he thought it would. It was never as if he had wished them ill, he had just wanted them to stop interfering with him. He had fought with both of them, but not because he hated them. It had never been about that. He just wanted to be left alone, to build his country. God, he wanted Britain to understand, it had never been about hating him…

A sudden noise startled him out of his own thoughts. It sounded like something further off into the trees. Picking up his rifle, leather bag, and throwing his boots back on, America went off to investigate. It was probably and animal or something, he thought as he peeked around a tree.

A voice yelped in surprise, then yelled, "Stay back!" America was startled, and he nearly fell over, but he regained his footing and looked around again. "Don't move!" the voice said. "I'm warning you, this thing is loaded!"

In front of him, America saw a youth in a gray uniform, lying on the ground and pointing his gun up towards him. His hair was light blonde, with amber colored eyes, and he looked terrified, in spite of the fact he was the one holding a weapon.

America tilted his head and said, "I'm not sure that thing would work on me." It was true; he didn't think nations could be killed by getting shot. At least, he was pretty sure they couldn't. He had never actually been shot himself. Come to think of it, if Britain hadn't been able to bring himself to shoot him that one time, maybe it actually was dangerous to nations.

"Look, just…just stay where you are!" the soldier said, his voice cracking in the middle. He was very young, America thought. He didn't even really look old enough to enlist in the army.

"I'm not moving," America said, in an attempt to placate him.

"Good," he replied, attempting to stand. But when he put his weight on his left leg, he winced and fell back again.

"Are you okay?" America asked.

"Yes!" the other said.

"Did you hurt yourself when you fell?"

"No! Now stop talking!" He tried again to stand, while simultaneously keeping an eye on America, but again he failed.

"I could take a look at that," America said.

"Don't come any closer!"

"Are you sure? I can probably help."

"I don't need your help!" he yelled. "Y-you damn yank!"

America shrugged. "Suit yourself." He started walking away.

A moment passed. Then he heard the boy yell, "Hey! Wait!" America stopped and started to grin.

He walked back. "Yes?"

"Um, maybe I could use some help?" the confederate soldier said.

America smirked. "Only if you say please."

"Oh, come _on_," the other boy groaned.

"Hey, you're the one who pointed a gun at me first," America said.

He sighed. "Fine. _Please_ help me?"

"Sure," America said brightly. Then he added, "Just put that gun away."

Though he looked reluctant, the other boy set the gun on the ground, though it was still within reach. America decided to take that, set his own rifle on the ground, and went over to look at the boy's injury. Any one of his general's would probably be furious with him for helping a confederate soldier, but the way America saw it, these were still his people. So he was still obligated to help them when they needed it.

"You twisted your ankle," America said.

"Great," the soldie sighed.

"It's not too bad," America replied. "I can patch it up quick enough."

The soldier raised his eyebrow, suspiciously. "Why are you helping me?" he asked. America paused, unsure of how to answer. It wasn't as if he could just tell him that he was one of his citizens.

Or could he? Actually, he saw no real reason why not.

"Because I'm the United States of America," he said. "And I help my people."

The soldier's face twisted with anger. "No, we're not!" he yelled. "We aren't yours! I'm my own country, now!"

America was taken aback for a moment, before realization dawned on him. "Oh, I get it," he said. "You must be a new nation."

The boy nodded. "The Confederate States of America," he said. "And don't you forget it," he added as a bit of an afterthought.

Well, that was a little unexpected.

"Huh," America said in the absence of anything better.

"Huh?" the Confederacy parroted. "What do you mean, huh?"

"Just, huh," America replied. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting to ever actually meet you." He almost said 'didn't know you existed' but even he thought that sounded a little offensive.

The Confederacy scowled at him, but he didn't say anything. America reached into the bag he had around his shoulder and pulled out a roll of bandages (he had found that these were always good to have around a battlefield) and began wrapping the injured nations ankle. He winced a little as America tightened the bandage, but, again, he said nothing. Awkward as the situation was, America couldn't stand sitting there in silence.

"So why did you secede?" he asked.

The Confederacy gaped at him for a moment. "What?" he finally said. "I mean, what kind of question is that to just ask right away?"

"Sorry," America said. "I just want to know."

"N-no, you don't," the Confederacy said. "You don't care about me. None of you do!"

"Uh…If I didn't care about you, why would I be helping you?"

America actually felt quite self-satisfied at his show of logic, which had managed to render the Confederacy speechless. For a moment, at least.

"It's a lie," he said. "I mean, I don't know why. But I don't trust you," he insisted.

"Well, that's kind of rude," America said. After all, what had he ever done to the Confederacy?

Besides the war.

The Confederacy looked pensive for a moment, before he spoke again. "Why do you want to know? Why I seceded, I mean?"

"Because I want to know what happened," America said. "It really hurt when South left" (literally, he thought to himself) "but I still don't totally understand why it happened. I mean, I know everybody talks about those dumb tariffs, but that doesn't seem like a good reason to split up a country. And, I figure you're probably a good person to ask."

"Well," the Confederacy began. "I wasn't born during all the stuff that led up to it. I only know what people have told me. And, yes, they were upset about the tariffs. But it was more the fact that the North was taking advantage of us. And nobody seemed to care. The rights of my states were being violated, but still, nobody tried to do anything. It's like you didn't respect us enough to hear us out. So we got fed up and left."

"Oh," America said. "Yeah, I guess I know how that feels." Memories of his time with Britain came flooding back.

"If you know how it feels, then why did you do it?" the Confederacy demanded.

"It's not like I did anything on purpose," America shot back defensively. "And you guys are the ones breaking the law."

"It's not a valid law if it infringes on our rights."

"What rights are being infringed? You all had just as much a say in Congress, but the majority ruled. That's how democracies work."

"Well, clearly it _didn't _work!" the Confederacy exclaimed.

The sat opposite each other, on the ground, eyes locked in heated stares. Anger and resentment, while unspoken, filled the air between them, creating a tenser and tenser atmosphere. Until the entire thing was broken by one bright bout of laughter.

America couldn't contain himself anymore. He started to giggle, until a laugh broke out in full force. The Confederacy began staring at him like he was a lunatic.

"S-sorry," America managed to say through the gales of laughter.

"What exactly do you find so funny?"

"Not, _funny_, exactly," America said. "I just don't think I've argued with anyone like that for a long time."

"So?"

"So, it's fun!" America said. "I mean it's not as if you have to hate someone to fight with them. And arguing is interesting. You learn a lot."

The Confederacy was now sure he was sitting with a crazy person, but for some reason he could not find it in himself to be bothered. He had been sure that the Union would be a big, cruel, monster. But the young man before him seemed so nice. It had to be some sort of trick, he told himself. Everything everyone had told him about the Union had been bad. They couldn't have lied to him, could they?

"Don't you hate me?" he said softly.

America stopped laughing. But he did smile. "Of course not," he said.

"Really?" the Confederacy said, but then he began to worry that he was sounding to eager. He cleared his throat and said, "Why not?"

"Why should I?" America asked. It was such a simple question, the Confederacy thought. And he just seemed so sincere. A little dense, though.

"Well, we are at war," said the Confederacy. "And I'm rebelling against you."

"Yes, but you came from me," America said. "That kind of makes you like my little brother or something, right?"

"No!" the Confederacy insisted. But America only continued to smile at him.

"Sure it does," America replied.

"We're at war!"

"I know, but brothers fight, right?"

The Confederacy gave a loud, frustrated sigh. "How can you make light of this! People are _dying_!"

America's expression sobered almost instantly, and for a moment the Confederacy felt a twinge of guilt. "I know," America said. "And I want it to stop."

"I do too," replied the Confederacy. "But I need to fight for my freedom."

America smiled again, but it was a sad smile. The Confederacy thought it made him look older, somehow. "Yeah. I know," he said. Then he looked at the ankle he had finished binding. "Are you okay to walk like this?"

"I'll be fine." Then he grinned and said, "No offering to help me walk back. I'm not going to fall for any tricks to find out where we're camped."

America returned the grin. "I don't need tricks to beat you, kid," he said. Then he added, "We should meet here again. When your ankle is better."

"What?"

"Right here, in one month," America said. He grabbed his belongings and ran off, yelling, "Don't be late!"

The Confederacy just shook his head. "Is he crazy?" he asked himself. Unsurprisingly, no one answered. So he picked himself up, and limped back to camp, though he still checked to make sure no one was following him.

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

_(August 1863)_

The Confederacy stared out across the fields that not long ago had seen blood and battle. They seemed so peaceful now. It was so easy to forget all the men that had died right near where he stood. He wondered if the battle would be remembered years in the future. It was just so easy, in the hot summer haze, to forget.

A familiar sigh next to him brought him out of his musings. The Union got bored easily. Honestly, even though he was the younger of the two by a large margin, he often felt like the more mature one. Of course, he hadn't had much of a choice but to grow up fast. He had been born into a war.

He still wasn't sure why he had gone back to the spot Union had designated after a month had gone by. He had no reason to. And, looking back on it, it could have been a trap. But he had liked his northern counterpart. And no matter how much he tried to shake the feeling, he was pretty lonely. His only company were human generals and politicians, and none of them were very interested in anything but the war. His boss did try and make him more comfortable, but he had a lot of other things to worry about. And while he knew that he had a duty to always be ready and vigilant, sometimes he really just wanted to splash in a brook, or run around and laugh, or talk about something other than fighting. He really just wanted one friend.

And the Union acted like he thought a friend should. He made jokes that made him laugh, and the Union showed him wonderful places in his own country he had never seen before. But they didn't always explore. Sometimes they just sat and talked.

"Does coming here with you make me a traitor?" The Confederacy asked. This was the fifth time he was meeting the Union.

"Of course not," Union replied. "Why should it? It's not like we talk about war or political stuff."

"I know. But I am at war with you. And shouldn't a nation always think like his people? It's my duty to be an example, a support."

"I dunno," his companion replied. "I mean, what kind of example can we be if no one but our bosses and some people in our government or military know who we are?"

"I guess that's true," the Confederacy admitted.

"You know," the Union said after a time, "I still don't really know what I should call you."

"What do you mean?" the Confederacy asked.

"Well, it's not like I can acknowledge that you're another country." The Confederacy scowled at him, but America didn't seem to notice. "Plus calling you Confederacy is awkward."

"Well, I don't much like having to call you Union," the Confederacy jabbed back, although its insulting intent was lost on his companion.

"Hey, what does your boss call you, when other people are around?" the Union asked suddenly.

"Umm," the Confederacy replied. "He calls me Samuel."

"Great! My bosses have always called me Alfred. Alfred Jones. I don't know why they use that name, but I don't mind it."

"What exactly is your point with all this?" the Confederacy asked.

"We should call each other by those names. So we won't have to argue or anything."

The Union seemed quite proud of his suggestion, and the Confederacy had to admit it wasn't a bad one. They had argued before about his sovereignty. The Confederacy had been worried that the Union wouldn't come to see him after they fought the first time. But he came back to see him again, and he didn't even act like they had had a problem.

"Uh, Alfred, was it?" he asked. The Union nodded. "I guess that's okay."

"Right!"

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><p><em>(October 1863)<em>

The Confederacy paced nervously as he waited to see if Alfred (it was easier to think of him as Alfred when they were friends instead of enemies on the battlefield) would come to their usual meeting place. The last time he had seen him, they had argued again. This time, it had been about slavery, and that fight had been worse than usual.

He wasn't sure how they had even gotten on the topic, though it might have been something about Alfred's army enlisting freed slaves. It had been pretty bad. Alfred actually seemed to feel pretty strongly that slavery should end, and the subject made him angrier than the Confederacy had thought he was capable of becoming. It was strange seeing someone normally so easy going suddenly get so passionate and furious.

Well, it wasn't as if he liked slavery, but it was necessary to his economy, his people's way of life. He had mostly gotten angry that the Union had started acting like he was superior. After all, what did the Union know about the problems he faced? The Union had no right to meddle in his affairs.

But then he regretted the fight. It wasn't like he had other friends, so he didn't want to alienate his one source of companionship.

He was relieved to see Alfred come over a hill, waving.

"Sorry I'm late," he said. "Had to get away from my boss."

So then Alfred hadn't told his boss about their meetings either. Not that that was too surprising. "Umm, Alfred," the Confederacy started. "About last time-"

"Forget about it," Alfred said. "Come on, I want to show you these woods. They get really pretty in the fall."

Glad that the incident was forgotten, the Confederacy followed him. Alfred was right, the woods were beautiful. All orange and crimson and gold, like a fire that didn't burn. And after being touched by the fires of battle and death, he was glad to see a flame of life.

This was only the second autumn he had really seen, he reflected.

"Why do the leaves change color?" he asked.

"You don't know?" Alfred said. The Confederacy shook his head. "They change because the trees are going to sleep for the winter. The leaves fall off because the trees don't need them to make food, but then they come back when the trees wake up in spring."

"I didn't know trees slept," the Confederacy marveled.

"It's not exactly sleeping," Alfred admitted. "But it's like that. When I was little I spent all my time in woods like these. Or plains, or lakes or streams."

"That sounds nice."

"It was."

"Will you show me all of them?" the Confederacy asked. "When the war is over?"

"Of course," Alfred replied, grinning.

* * *

><p><em>(January 1864)<em>

"It's so pretty," Samuel cried when America let him open his eyes.

"I know," America declared, glad that Samuel liked it. They were standing in the snow, before a massive frozen lake. There were icicles on the trees too, which sparkled in the sunlight, reflecting light in his eyes.

America loved showing off his landscape. No one in Europe seemed to care much unless they could chop it down or make something else out of it. But Samuel seemed to love everything America showed him, though he supposed that made sense. This was his land too, after all. Even if America couldn't acknowledge him as another country, he did recognize that Samuel was a part of his land now, and he wanted him to experience it in all its splendor.

"It's a little sad about the trees though," Samuel said. "They seem so cold and dead. Everything is so grey."

"They'll become green again in spring," America assured him. He was honestly surprised by just how childlike the Confederacy really was (and he knew a thing or two about being a kid). Sometimes, especially after a battle he was really serious and subdued. Until America showed him a new place to explore or a new animal to look at, and then Samuel's hard shell seemed to melt away into youthful, unashamed, wonder. It was America's goal, whenever they met, to bring out that part of him. After all, Samuel probably never really got a chance to be like this when everyone around him only talked about wars and death. America could barely stand the pressure of this war, and he was much more experienced and had seen fighting before. This was Samuel's first task in all his life. And America really hated that he had been born into fire and death.

"Can you walk on it," Samuel asked, as he poked the hard surface of the frozen water with a stick.

"This ice is too thin," America informed him. He knew because he had tried to walk on this lake when he was little. Luckily, Britain had been there to fish him out and wrap him in a warm blanket with some hot tea. "But there are places up north where you can walk on frozen water, and it won't break."

"Wow. That must be amazing. To really walk on water."

"It is pretty awesome." Then America added, "I'll show you after the war."

"Thank you," Samuel said, as he began to try and break the ice with his stick.

* * *

><p><em>(May 1864)<em>

"What are other countries like?" the Confederacy asked.

"What do you mean?" Alfred said.

"You've met other countries, right?" the Confederacy continued. "I never have. I've gotten letters from France and one from Britain's government, even though he never wrote me himself, but that isn't the same. So, are they like us? I mean, they must be a lot older, right?"

"Well, they're all pretty different," America answered. "But they are like us, fundamentally, I guess. They can be a real hoot, sometimes," he said with a grin. "Like France can be really funny, even if he's pretty perverted most of the time. Spain is cool, but none of his colonies like him much. Finland is really nice, but he hangs around with Sweden a lot, and Sweden is seriously scary. Netherlands never talked to me much, but we made some good trade deals. Prussia is…Prussia. By the way, if he offers to train you, just warning you it will be total hell. And then there's Britain…"

Alfred grew silent. The Confederacy waited for a moment before saying, "What about him?"

"I dunno. He was strict sometimes, but he was really nice. He took good care of me when I needed him."

"So why did you rebel?"

"I- I had to. I needed to grow up, you know? I wasn't a kid, but Britain still saw me as one. And I got fed up with the way he treated me, so I fought my revolution. Things got pretty bad for a while. But he couldn't shoot me, in the end." Alfred paused. "You know, sometimes I wonder if he regrets that."

The Confederacy felt a pang of pity for Alfred. That must have been a terrible burden. "I'm sure he doesn't," he said, which seemed to make Alfred feel better.

"Thanks," he replied.

They were quiet for a few minutes, before the Confederacy broke the silence. "Alfred?" he began.

"Yeah?"

"If…if you had to, would you kill me?"

Alfred seemed taken aback. "Where did that come from?"

The Confederacy shrugged. "I don't know. I just thought, since we are at war, and if I lose, I can't be a country anymore. So what else could happen to me?"

"We can both be a country," Alfred said, as if it should have been obvious. "I mean, what about North and South Italy? They just became a single kingdom and they didn't have to kill each other. We can do the same thing."

"Really," the Confederacy said, not trying to keep the excitement from his voice. But he quickly added, "That doesn't mean I'm not still going to fight for my independence."

Alfred chuckled and ruffled the Confederacy's hair (a gesture that annoyed him no end). "I know, Samuel."

"Good," the Confederacy replied, batting America's hand away.

* * *

><p><em>(August 1864)<em>

America was nervous. He hadn't seen the Samuel in nearly two months now, even though they had promised to meet each other again. Perhaps his boss had found out and was just keeping a closer eye on him, so he couldn't get away? America hoped that was all it was. He couldn't stand the idea that something else bad had happened to Sam.

Finally, though, he saw a figure approaching in the distance. America waved and ran towards it, seeing that it was indeed the Confederacy.

"Sam!" he called, running up to the younger nation in his grey uniform. But once he got close, even he could tell almost at once that something was wrong.

"Sammy?" he questioned. Samuel's uniform hung looser on him than it should have, and his skin was ghostly pale, his eyes sunken and hollow.

"A-Alfred," he said weakly, before sinking to his knees. America knelt down to steady him, and he saw tears forming in Samuel's eyes.

"Sam, what's wrong?" he asked. Samuel looked like he was trying to respond, but all that came out was a choking sob. Soon, tears were streaming freely down his face, and sobbing wracked his entire body. America froze for a moment, unsure of what to do. He decided to start by putting a hand on the Confederacy's shoulder. Once he did, Samuel grabbed his arm and pulled America close, burying his face in the blue wool of his uniform.

America tried to remember the sort of things Britain had done for him when he needed comfort. All he could really come up with was stroking the sobbing nation's hair and letting his cry. That seemed to work okay, since after a while, Samuel managed to calm down a little.

"I-I'm sorry," he stammered, wiping his nose and eyes on his sleeve. "I shouldn't have done that."

"What's wrong?" America asked again.

Samuel brought his knees up to his chest and hugged his legs. "It was so horrible," he muttered.

"What was?" America asked, but Samuel didn't seem to have heard him.

"They burned peoples homes, their fields. I saw them kill _children_," he said. "Right in front of their mothers. And…and oh God, I saw them do awful things. Alfred," he said, turning his head to America. "Why did they do that? Why did they kill all those people? They weren't even soldiers. They didn't want to hurt anyone, they just wanted to live their lives and be left alone. Why did Sherman's men do all those things?"

America felt guilt begin to claw at his insides as he watched Samuel's pleading expression. Since for the first time, he had no answer for the younger nation's questions.

"I was so scared," Samuel said. "You…you didn't know, did you?" he asked suddenly.

"What?" America replied. "About what?"

"About what Sherman was doing, what he was going to do. Please, tell me you didn't know!"

"Of course I didn't know!" America said. And it was true, mostly. He knew that Sherman was marching down towards Georgia, but he didn't know about anything Samuel was telling him. Had his soldiers really murdered civilians, burned people's homes? He didn't want to believe it. But he didn't think that Samuel was lying to him.

"Okay. I believe you," Samuel said. He straitened himself up, and said "I'm really sorry about that."

"It's okay," America replied.

"I hate watching people die."

"I know."

"I want the war to end."

"Me too."

They didn't say much after that. Samuel just sat there, crying a little while America put his arm around him. America didn't mind the silence, for once. Besides, he didn't know what to say anyway. But he was glad Sam trusted him enough to come to him when he needed comfort. America knew that being a nation could get very lonely. No human, no matter how hard they tried, could really understand what they went through, especially when they had to see their people die.

And they saw it all the time. A nation went into battle with his troops, after all. America had seen men die in three wars already, not counting fights with natives on his soil. And that didn't even include people he liked, his favorite bosses, people he had thought of as friends, getting old and wasting away. And he was isolated from most of the other countries, which made the loneliness worse. Of course, he had at least had the chance see them. The Confederacy had been trying to face everything, all these horrors and hardships, alone. Up until now, at least. Now he had America to help him. It felt nice, having someone who needed him.

He knew that the war would be over soon. The Confederacy just couldn't keep up with him. But he also knew that he had to protect Sam. He was the only person the young nation had right now, so he had a duty to keep him safe. He wanted to keep him safe. Surely he could convince his boss that Sam meant no harm. And then they could see each other whenever they wanted, and America could finally show him all those places up north that he had promised.

"Everything's gonna be okay," he murmured, in part at least for the Confederacy. But he knew he also wanted to hear it himself.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued...<em>


	3. Chapter 3

_(April 1865)_

Heat, debris, and sweat practically blinded him as he ran through the ruins of what had once been his capital. The Confederacy was clutching his gun tightly to his chest, even though it no longer had any ammunition. He just needed something to cling to, to convince himself that he was still alive. Suddenly, he threw himself down as he heard another blast from a cannon, and he felt pieces of a newly destroyed building raining down on him.

He stayed down, arms covering his head, desperately trying to block out the gunfire, the cannons, and the screaming. Oh God, why was the screaming so terrible this time? Was it because they all knew that they were being defeated once and for all? Was it because he knew these could be the last things he ever heard?

_I should be brave,_ he thought. _I should get up and fight!_ But his legs rebelled against him, and he could not make himself move.

He heard footsteps. He didn't want to look up. He was afraid to look up.

When he did, he was staring into the barrel of a gun, wielded by a man in blue wool, flanked by two others, looking down at him with angry eyes.

_Am I going to die?_ he thought to himself. Then again, maybe it would be better this way. He had failed after all. Failed the people who had given him life. But, still, he was afraid, and tears began to sting his eyes.

"Go to hell," he heard the blue-clad soldier say. The Confederacy closed his eyes, ashamed at his cowardice, but not sure that it really mattered, anyway.

_I'm never going to see those places up north,_ he thought._ I'm sorry Alfred. I really wanted to see them. It would have been so wonderful. I really wanted to walk on water…_

He waited for what seemed like an eternity. Waited for the final boom of a gunshot. He hoped it wouldn't hurt.

"NO!"

The Confederacy's eyes shot open as he heard the familiar voice. He felt strong arms wrap themselves around him as he stared up, and saw Alfred's bright blue eyes shining against the filth on his skin.

"Get away," Alfred said in a voice that commanded respect. The Confederacy had never heard him talk like that.

"What the hell are you doing?" one of the soldiers' demanded.

"That's none of your business," Alfred said. "Now get away."

"We ain't leaving him," the one with the gun said. "You wanna protect a traitor, fine. Guess that makes you a traitor too." He raised the gun again, but Alfred rose to meet him, standing tall in spite of the fact he was unarmed.

"You want to shoot me?" Alfred said. "Fine. Go right ahead."

The soldier hesitated for a moment. It was all Alfred needed. He flew forward, tearing the gun from the other man's grasp and laying a fist into his jaw. The soldier reeled back, stunned by the sudden assault. His companions were quicker to respond, though, training their guns on Alfred, but Alfred was too quick and before they could get off a shot, he had already shoved his fist into one man's gut with such a force that he was launched backwards, landing hard on his rear. The third seemed wiser than the other two, and he simple ran before Alfred reached him. The other two followed soon after.

Alfred walked back over and knelt down, his blue eyes meeting the Confederacy's bloodshot amber ones. "It's okay," Alfred said. "You're safe."

"What are you doing?" the Confederacy asked. "Why are you saving me?"

Alfred smiled. "You're a part of me, idiot. I won't let anything happen to my little brother," he said, as he wrapped his arms protectively around the Confederacy.

"I am not," he replied, but he still clutched tighter to the wool of Alfred's jacket. It was easier to block out the horrible screaming with Alfred there.

"I'll keep you safe, little brother. I promise."

The Confederacy was too tired to protest.

…_._

America swallowed nervously before stepping into his boss' office. He had known that his actions in Richmond would have consequences. But he was ready to face them. After all, he had made a promise, and he was not ashamed that he had kept it. At least Sam was safe at Lee's home just outside of Washington. For now, anyway. _No matter what_, he told himself, _Sam has to stay safe. I can't let them hurt him._

He knocked on the door. A voice bid him enter.

When America saw his boss, he was not surprised to see him pale and wan, the lines of his face etched deeper than usual (which was saying something). He was tall and very thin to begin with, but the war had been hard on him, and it was showing. Nevertheless, he stared at America with the same sad, but somehow knowing, look in his eyes that he had always had.

"Sir," he said.

"America," his boss returned.

America took a deep breath, straightened his back, and broadened his shoulders. "I'm prepared for whatever punishment you have for me," he said in the bravest voice he could. "But I do not regret my actions. So do your worst, I can take it. Just so long as you promise not to do anything to Sam."

His boss regarded him for a moment. Then he started laughing, softly, and America instantly deflated.

"Forgive me," his boss said. "While I admire your fortitude, America, I can assure you that it is unnecessary."

"Oh," America replied. "Really?"

"Yes, really. It is my goal to reconcile with the South, not to punish them. In light of that, how could I punish your actions in saving the Confederacy?"

"Uhh… I guess you can't?"

"Precisely. America, your relationship with the Confederacy gives me great hope for our chances at a lasting reconciliation and peace. I assure you, I will do everything in my power to ensure his wellbeing."

"Great!" America exclaimed. "I promise, he won't do any harm. I mean, he isn't happy about Lee surrendering, but he won't do anything. In fact, can I take him up north? You see, I promised him that I would when-" he stopped suddenly, catching himself before he blurted out anything about their meetings. No need to risk his boss knowing about that. After all, he may not have minded that America saved him, but his boss would probably not be happy he had lied to him. "Uhh, when we left Richmond," America said. "He was curious, you see."

"Mm-hmm," his boss said, nodding.

"Anyway, does this mean that Samuel has nothing to worry about?"

"Not from me. Others will be angry with him, and may seek to do him harm, but I will do whatever I can for him."

America beamed. "Thank you," he said.

"No thanks are necessary, America," his boss replied. "Now if you excuse me? I have a great deal or work to finish."

"Yes sit," America said, before he ran off, excited, from the office.

….

Everything came crashing down in an instant.

He had felt it, when his boss had been shot. He had tried to deny it, tried to convince himself that he had imagined everything. But then he got the news. His boss had been shot, while at the theatre. He was dying. America had rushed to the White House the moment he heard what had happened, but he had only been in time to hear the man's final words. Then he had been escorted out of the room. Unable to keep still, he had run out, and now he was wondering aimlessly about Washington.

America felt numb. What would this mean for him? What would this mean for his people? What would it mean for Sam? His boss had been the one advocating peace with the South, but others disagreed. What would happen now that his boss was gone?

He wanted so badly to pretend that it hadn't happened. He wanted someone to comfort him and tell him everything would be okay. One of his bosses had never been assassinated before. He had no idea what he was supposed to do now. Should he even do anything? Would the transfer of power be any different than it was after an election? Would there be more fighting? God, he had no idea.

He stopped. People moved around him, news of the President's death hanging heavy in the air. They were afraid, they were angry, sad. But some were glad, although they only said it in whispers. America found it hard not to hate those people.

He shook his head. _I can't do this_, he thought. _I need to be strong now. I faced a civil war and came out of it okay. I can handle this too. I will never let anybody see me weak. Not France, not Britain, not my people, not anybody. _

This resolution made him feel better, if only slightly. He turned, and he knew that he still had a job to do. People would be angry with the South after this. He needed to protect Sam. He set off at a brisk walk, then at an all out run when that wasn't fast enough for him. Ragged breathing burned his throat, and his limbs felt stiff, but he did not stop until he was out of the city, and headed across the bridge over the Potomac into Virginia. Lee's house was there. That's where Sam was.

He allowed himself to stop for a rest, when he reached the base of the hill on top of which a dignified estate sat. Once a surrounded by a proud plantation, it now sat amongst the graves of fallen soldiers. They had turned Lee's former home into a cemetery. America had thought Sam wouldn't like it.

"_I don't mind," _Sam had said. _"After all, I am a nation. It's important that I remember the cost of fighting. That way, I won't do it for a bad reason. Besides, I want to be with my people."_

That was a wise thing to say, America thought. He didn't hear wise things very often, but he recognized it in his younger brother. Sam had his moments.

America took a few deep breaths, and then he began to run again. It was getting easier, even though he was running up hill now. He passed graves, some completed and marked, others waiting to receive their charges. He tried to ignore them. He'd had enough of death.

But the instant America reached the top of the hill, he knew that something was wrong. The front door was wide open, and blue clad soldiers stood at the entrance. As he got closer, America recognized two of his generals, as well as a man from his government, who was wearing a black tailored suit that stood out amongst the others' blue uniforms. They were standing on the porch.

"What's going on?" he shouted, running towards the men he recognized, but two soldiers blocked his path. "What the hell?" he demanded.

"Alfred?" one of his generals said, looking over to him. "What are you doing here?"

"My brother's in there! Let me though!" he ordered, as he attempted to shove his way by, but the soldiers pushed him back. "What's going on?" he cried again.

"Get him out of here," he heard the man from his government say.

"No! I want to know what you're doing. Let me go!" he yelled, shaking off the hands that tried to grab his arms. But then there were three, then four soldiers surrounding him. He attempted to push past, but he did not want to hurt them, and while he was stronger by a large margin, they had numbers on their side. And they seemed to have fewer compunction about hurting him. Although he fought against their hold, soon they had him by the arms, but he would not allow them to drag him away.

"Get off!" he cried as he struggled. Then he saw movement in the open doorway. Another general he recognized walked out, pistol drawn. Two soldiers followed him, along with two more officers. They were followed last by two more men, holding a struggling figure between them.

"Sam!" he cried when he recognized their captive.

Sam lifted his head. "Alfred?" he called back. "Alfred!"

"Let him go!" America yelled, but no one listened to him. He now fought against the men holding him in earnest, shoving hard to one side and forcing the two on his left to the ground, then quickly twisting and turning on the other pair. He managed to free his left arm, and aimed a swift punch at one man's head. His fist cracked against the other man's skull, and soon his right arm was free as well, but when he attempted to advance, someone grabbed his ankle and he crashed into the ground. The weight of men piling on top of him began crushing his chest.

"Alfred!" Sam cried. "Leave him alone!" he pleaded, but no one replied to him.

America raised his head as best he could. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded. This time, the man dressed in black approached him.

"This is none of your business Alfred," he said. "Please, do not make a scene."

"The hell I won't!" he shouted. "What do you want with Sam?"

"Alfred, leave now. It is not necessary for you to see this."

America felt his heart plunge into his stomach. He looked at the cold expressions of the gathered men, then at the gun in the general's hand. "No," he said. "No, you can't."

"Alfred?" he heard Sam say. "Alfred, what's happening?"

"You can't do this," America said again. "My boss, he said…"

"What he said is of no consequence, now," said the general wielding the gun, who was now walking towards them. "A Southern traitor killed him. That was the result of his attempts at peace. Well, now we try another technique. We must have a firm hand."

"But Sam didn't do anything wrong!"

"Would you rather we wait?" the general barked. "Would you rather we wait until he kills someone else, or incites another war?"

"He won't! I promise he won't! He would never do anything like that!"

"Alfred, they won't tell me what's going on!" Samuel cried. "I didn't do anything! I promise, I didn't!"

"Just let him go!"

"Alfred, we don't expect you to understand-"

"I'm sick of waiting. Let's get this over with, already."

"Alfred, help!"

"Sam! Please, please, let him go! Let him go!"

"Alfred, this needs to be done."

"No!"

"Help me!"

The general sighed, and lifted his pistol, drawing back the hammer. He walked away, back towards the others. Back towards Sam…

"No, please!" Samuel cried. "Alfred!"

"Stop!" he begged. "No!"

His vision was blocked, but America could still hear everything.

He heard Sam crying.

"No!"

"Alfred," Samuel sobbed weakly.

"No, please!"

He heard the blast of a gunshot.

"NO!"

It was quiet.

….

The funeral had been minimal, at best. They had buried him in an unmarked grave, not too far from where they had killed him. America had been the one to plant the tree. It was only a tiny sapling now, but soon it would grow up, into a big and strong oak tree. He thought that Sam would have liked it. He had always liked it when America took him out into the woods. Besides, if they wouldn't let a headstone mark his grave, this was least America could do.

America had cried. He had wept for so long, that he couldn't seem to bring any more tears to his eyes. They were tears of sorrow, tears of anger, hatred. Hatred for the men who had killed his brother, hatred towards the man who had killed his leader, hatred for the war, hatred towards himself. That was the strongest feeling, after grief: a consuming self-loathing.

_I couldn't protect you. I promised I would. And I failed. Dammit, why couldn't I do anything?_

He was kneeling before the freshly turned earth, the sun shining down on him. It was too bright. The sun had no right to be so bright and warm while Sam was trapped under the dark, cold ground. It wasn't fair.

"I'm sorry," America said. "God. I'm so sorry."

No one responded to him. He gave a dry sob, but still no more tears came. Maybe that was for the best. He was a man, after all. Men shouldn't cry.

_Nor should they fail those they promised to protect_.

America didn't even bother trying to push away those terrible, nagging thoughts filling his head. They were all true.

He rose, slowly. The fresh earth smelled nice, even if it was for a grave. America took a deep, steadying breath as he tried to collect his scattered thoughts. He could not afford to wallow in his own grief forever. He had a country to rebuild, his boss' murderer to catch. While he had failed this task, he did not have to fail those.

"I'll do better," he said. He wasn't sure if he was talking to Sam, or himself, or anyone really. But he was tired of silence. "Never again. I'll never let anyone suffer like this. I'll become stronger. I swear, I will. So strong, I can save anybody I want to, no matter what."

"America?"

America whirled around, startled. Then he saw, standing before him a few yards away, another figure. A familiar one too, though not anyone he had expected.

"Britain?" he said.

"How are you doing?" his former guardian asked. His expression showed an attempt to look easy going, but even America could see the tension in his face, the concern in his eyes.

America didn't know how to feel. He figured that he should be feeling something, considering who was standing in front of him, what Britain had done to him. The wars they had fought, the angry words, the bitter feelings. But America wasn't angry. Maybe he was just too tired to feel angry anymore.

"I'm fine, I guess," America said. "What are you doing here?"

"I- I really shouldn't be here," Britain said. "My boss does not know I came. But I…I heard about everything that happened, and I wanted, uh, I wanted to see how you were."

"Hey, I won, didn't I? I'm great." America replied.

"But your boss? That must weigh heavily on you."

"Well, yes. But I can't just sit around moping about it. I'm gonna go out and find the son of a bitch who killed him."

Britain sighed, shaking his head. "I should have expected no less from you. Still," he said. "Are you really all right? I would understand, if you, I don't know, needed to talk? I know, we have had some troubles in the recent past. But I am still here. If you need me." He looked embarrassed, America thought.

Still, it would have been nice to be able to talk. America wanted to tell him about Samuel. He wanted nothing more than to have Britain reassure him, tell him everything would be okay, tell him it wasn't his fault.

"Please, that's ridiculous," he scoffed. "Like I'd need anyone's help. I mean, I just _won_, didn't I? What would I need to weep about?"

"Oh, well, nothing I suppose," Britain said hurriedly. "I merely wanted to check."

"Nice thought, Britain, but, seriously, I don't need it," America said, his gut wrenching as he smiled and said those words. But he could not go running to Britain. Not if he was going to become strong. He could not afford to depend on anyone else. Never again.

"Well, fine then," Britain said. "I'm glad to see you are doing well."

"Of course. I mean, the war was rough. Really rough. I saw a lot of people die," he said, his voice growing softer.

"America-" Britain began.

"But I'm fine!" America declared quickly, catching himself. "Watch out, Britain. One day, I'm going to become powerful enough to stop any war. Then we won't have to worry about stuff like this."

Britain rolled his eyes. "You've been reading too many adventure stories, America. I don't remember you having such a ridiculous hero complex."

America laughed out loud. "Hero, huh? I like it. Alright then, one day, I'm going to be the hero!"

"Oh, heavens defend us," Britain sighed.

America only laughed, and stole a quick glance back at the little, unmarked grave. _I know, I let you down, Sam. But I'll try to make it up to you. I'll become powerful. I'll be a better nation. I'll make sure nothing like what happened to you ever has to happen again. I'll be the whole world's hero._

America smiled as he felt a gentle breeze caressing his face, and the leaves on the little sapling began to rustle, softly.

_The End._


End file.
